"And the redbud," I said. "The redbud was in full bloom on April sixteenth. I have it. Peak bloom on the Feeney tree was April fourteenth to the nineteenth."
Gus had gone very still in his recliner. "So it's a lie that says what day it is."
"It's a lie," Mariela said, "that signed its name."
We had one file with metadata. One out of the dozens of photos on the escalator notices. Everything else had come on paper. But one was enough to turn my trees from an interesting argument into corroborated evidence, because now there were two independent clocks — the camera's internal calendar, and the trees — and they agreed with each other, and they both disagreed with the HOA.
More than that: it gave us a serial number. A particular black Nikon with a particular long gray lens. The kind of camera you might see resting on the passenger seat of a white Lexus, or held up to an upstairs window.
* * *
The HOA's response to my records request arrived on the twenty-ninth day. It was a single page.
The Board had determined that the requested violation files "contain personal information of other members and are protected from disclosure," and that original photographs were "not records of the association within the meaning of the statute," and that "no separate account for fine collections exists." It thanked me for my interest and reminded me that my account carried an outstanding balance of $350.
"'No separate account exists,'" Hal read, over my shoulder, in my kitchen. "That's interesting."
"Why?"
"Because it's either true, which means the fines went somewhere other than a separate account and somewhere other than the operating account, which is worse. Or it's false, and she just put a false statement in writing to a member over her signature, which is also worse." He smiled his long, gloomy smile. "There's no good answer to a reconciliation problem, Nell. There's just the one you can prove."